


only bought this dress so you could take it off

by spacelabrathor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacelabrathor/pseuds/spacelabrathor
Summary: If you’re going to taunt him, he’s going to make you pay for it.





	only bought this dress so you could take it off

You come into the bedroom to see a dress all laid out on the bed. A smile quirks your lips and you approach the bed slowly, dragging your feet on the soft carpet. The dress is dark and silky under your fingertips and even though he’s puttering around, getting ready in the bathroom, you know he’s put it out for you.

A familiar thrill stirs at that, a little sunburst of heat in your belly, and you bite your lip around a smile at the feeling.

You step easily out of your shorts and tug your shirt over your head. He hasn’t laid out a bra or panties, so you’ll go without.

The material of the dress is cool as it slips over your skin, making goosebumps prickle up your arms. It’s a sleek but modest number, a dark navy blue with cutouts on the sides. The perfect choice for the industry dinner you’re attending with him tonight.

These types of events aren’t really your scene, or his, but they’re necessary, and he usually treats you extra special afterwards for indulging him.

You go to the bathroom, feet whisper-soft on the carpet, and come to the door to see him standing before the vanity, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror. His eyes catch yours over his shoulder in the mirror and his chin tilts up appraisingly, seeing you in the dress. Eyes shading a bit darker. Pleased.

You move to stand next to him, turning your back in a silent request. He trails the pad of his pointer finger up the notches of your spine, _hmm_ ing rumbly in his chest when you shiver at the touch. He zips you up, letting his hands linger on your hips, around the curve of your ribs, and you lick your lips and stare at the floor. Waiting to see if he’ll treat you. If he’ll bend you over the bathroom sink before you go and leave you walking through a crowd of producers and casting directors with his cum leaking down your thighs.

He seems to read your mind and gives you a sweet smile. The picture of innocence when you turn in his arms to face him. “You look nice,” he says benignly, accent thick around the words.

Nice is not what you want and he knows it.

He’s in a crisp, white button down that’s all snug around the broad of his shoulders, tapering in tight around his waist and disappearing into slim, pressed navy pants. His beard is thick but well-groomed and his eyes are glowing blue in the soft yellow light of the bathroom as he takes you in.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumbing gently at your mouth, eyes going a little distant. You let your lips part, drawing his thumb in between your teeth. Letting your tongue lave against the salt of his skin, blinking into his gaze as you breathe around him, starting to suckle wetly at his thumb.

It’s as close as you’ll allow yourself to begging, already feeling the slip of slick start to gather between your legs. Always so easy for him.

His eyes drift down your front and linger lazily on the pebble of your nipples against the silky fabric of your dress before he looks up again. He gives you a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. A smile you know well.

You shiver. 

“Can’t be late, kitten,” he says as he pulls his thumb from your mouth with a soft _pop_.

He picks up his jacket from the counter and shrugs it on, striding past you out of the bathroom without a second thought, taking the heat that always surrounds him with him. 

You let out a slow breath and scrub at your breasts over the fabric of the dress, frustrated, and follow him. 

He holds out a hand to steady you as you ease your feet into heels and then you grab a clutch, checking to see you have everything you need, and you’re off.

 

 

The leather of the passenger seat is cool under the backs of your knees and you shiver again, watching him fiddle with the climate control knobs on the console absently as he backs the car from the garage. He taps the screen a few times, dropping the temperature and turning on the fan, and you let yourself lean back against the seat and take a quiet, controlled breath as frigid air blasts out at you.

You move to cross your legs at the cold but his hand settles, warm and dry and possessive around the inside of your knee, as he shifts into gear and tears out of the drive a little too fast.

He ignores you on the drive, keeping his eyes on the road. His hand feels scorching against the blast of the air conditioning and you want to close your knees, draw his hand farther in, to where you’re already hot and slick for him, but you don’t. Knowing you’re not supposed to and wanting to be good. Hoping that he’ll take you to the bathroom halfway through the evening and hike your dress up over your ass and fuck you until you can’t see straight if you’re good for him. 

You haven’t had him in a day and even that small wait is enough to make you desperate for him. He knows it, too.

He hums softly to the radio as he changes lanes, feigning ignorance to your swirling thoughts as his thumb strokes soft circles on the skin of your thigh.

He’s driving faster than he should, the car a quiet purr under your feet as he weaves effortlessly through traffic. He chose the fast car today and you know that when you get up, you’ll have left a mess on the leather of the seat. 

Traffic is light at this time of day and he pulls up to the valet before long. He climbs out of the car with ease and comes round the front to meet you, holding out his hand and helping you out. He passes the keys and a fold of bills to the valet and his hand settles on your lower back as you settle into step beside him, where you belong.

You ride up to the penthouse level in a crowded elevator, surrounded by other industry people, all smartly dressed and weirdly hushed. His hands curve around your hips and guide you to stand in front of him, pressed back against his front as your elbows bump against the people next to you.

The elevator is sleek and modern and nearly pitch black inside as it glides fifty floors up, and you exhale softly at the feel of his hot breath, his wet lips as they touch the shell of your ear. You bite your lip hard enough to bruise to keep quiet as his teeth close around your earlobe, and his hand is spread and warm as it slides over your belly and down between your legs. Your head falls back to his shoulder with a quiet _thump_ as he pets his fingers against your sex, fingering the silky heat there with light, teasing presses.

The elevator dings and he withdraws like an ocean wave as the interior lights ping on, making you blink rapidly, swallowing around the lump in your throat and clenching your thighs together to keep slick from dripping down your leg.

He’s unaffected, already slipping into his polite, professional networking mask, smiling at familiar faces as he steps off the elevator, pulling you along with an arm around your waist. Like his fingers aren’t covered in the smell and mess of you.

Your carefully constructed polite wife expression settles easily on your face and you steel yourself for an evening of good food and mediocre company. Anchored by the heat of Chris’ hand as it curves around your waist and the hard, possessive glint to his eyes when he looks down at you and smiles.

 

 

You spend most of the night sat next to Chris at a table covered in soft linens, being offered a constant stream of delicacies you can only manage to pick at. His thigh is warm through his trousers under the table where it presses to yours and he picks especially nice looking bites and offers them to you, ignoring the owlish stares of everyone else at the table when he presses them to your lips. Lips quirking up in satisfaction as you blink through your lashes at him and smile demurely.

You’re being good for him. Sitting by his side and engaging in inane small talk with industry professionals. Smiling when appropriate and laughing at lame jokes and mentioning to the casting director next to you that you think Chris would be perfect for her next project. 

Chris spends the evening checking in on you occasionally with a gentle smile but mostly ignoring you, letting his hand come to rest between your legs, curling around the knob of your knee but engaging the table in conversation. Telling stories that make everyone laugh, listening intently and nodding along at anecdotes that are passed around the table. It would warm your heart, seeing him like this, the man you love in his element, if he weren’t stringing you along in a way that he knows is torturous.

He pats your leg when you get impatient, squirming in your seat a little. Exhausted from how long he’s kept you on the edge, teasing you with little looks and light touches. Wringing you dry and making you feel hollow and desperate. You’re still wet for him, somehow, nearly two hours after you sat down for dinner. Your body has been operating on a low hum for him this entire time, twitching at his every touch, and you feel like you could weep.

You’re waiting for dessert to be served when you lean in close to him and press a kiss to his cheek, breathing softly against his ear. Begging quietly for him to meet you in the bathroom, voice breaking. Squeezing your thighs together under the table and trapping his palm between them.

Chris cocks his head a little, pulling back to look at your face. He seems to consider it for a moment. “Maybe later,” he replies. 

He smiles at you, all sweet. Feigning disinterest. Impassivity. Like he could take it or leave it. Like he’s not half-hard in his trousers at the thought of bending you over and filling you up with his cum. 

He’s being cruel and he knows it. And he’s enjoying it.

Something settles in you then, hardening. 

Bratty and defiant.

 _Fine._  

You press a soft kiss to his cheek and rise from the table, smiling sweetly back at him as you adjust your dress and touch his cheek with your palm.

He doesn’t even watch you leave, turning back to to the table before your hand has left his face, and it lights a fire in you. Low in your belly. Aroused and frustrated and tense.

The walk to the bar is short and you lean up against it gratefully, smiling at the bartender. He’s young and fresh faced, still apparently buzzing from the exclusivity of the event like it’s his first time attending one. He’s cute in a harmless, sophomoric way, but he won’t do for your needs.

“What can I get you?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel, smile a little too wide on his face. Like he’s having an absolute blast serving a bunch of stuffy old people drinks.  

You smile back, resisting the urge to reach out and pinch his cheeks. “A cab, if you have one.”

He has to think on that for moment but he starts and grins, “We do! Coming right up.”

You fish some small bills out of your clutch as he pops a cork and pours more of the dark wine into a stemless glass than a more experienced bartender would. Fine by you.

You take the glass and slide him a tip, thanking him with another smile before turning and leaning back against the bar to survey the room.

You don’t know many people at this event as there’s less actors and spouses and more corporate people, but that’s just as well. You bring the glass to your lips and savor the crisp profile of it as you sip it, counting flavors as it slips over your tongue and down your throat. You scan the room, floating from cocktail table to cocktail table. Assessing.

There’s a man standing at a lone table across the room near the windows, playing on his phone and looking bored. He’s vaguely familiar in that way that makes you think you’ve seen him act in something, though you couldn’t come up with what. He’s tall, though, and broad shouldered, a poor man’s version of your husband, and you find yourself stepping away from the bar and towards him before you can talk yourself out of it.

He blinks when you slide up next to him, setting your glass down next to his phone. He smiles at you, blindingly white, a little confused.

“Hi,” you say easily, bumping your shoulder against his lightly. “You looked bored.”

He actually blushes at that, looking impossibly bashful for the six-foot-something tree of a man that he is. “You got me,” he says around a shy grin. He pockets his phone and offers his hand. “I’m James.” 

You shake his hand, raising your eyebrows at the way his hand envelops yours. You give him your name and see his gaze catch on your wedding ring. “Nice to meet you, James,” you say, letting your eyes rove over him, entirely lacking in subtlety. 

He’s a head taller than you - shorter than Chris but not by much. He’s handsome but in a way that strikes you as too pretty, almost. Like his features belong in a painting underneath the beard and pulled-back hair and California tan. 

He’s unsure of how to engage with you, eyes dropping to the ring on your finger before darting back up to your eyes. A nice boy, to be sure.

You decide to take pity on him, dropping the flirtatious edge to your stance and resting your elbow on the table. “Do you hate these things as much as I do?” you ask conspiratorially, turning your wine glass in your hand and nodding your head to the crowded room.

He smiles at that, apparently relieved. “Yeah,” he admits with laugh. “I never know who to talk to. Or how long I have to stay.”

“Drinking helps,” you say around a smile, bringing your glass to your lips. “Have I seen you in anything?”

Asking people about themselves is your modus operandi at these things. It gets other people talking and allows you to smile and nod and hide behind your drink. 

It works like it always does, with James lighting up and telling about you his filmography at length as you sip your drink and react at the appropriate time. Your eyes go to table where Chris is still sat, hand curled around his glass, laughing at a story being told by a studio partner next to him. 

You watch Chris’ eyes drift across the room over the rim of his glass, checking each table in turn. Looking, you realize, for you.

You wait, sipping your wine again and nodding as James goes on beside you, telling you about how he got his first big break. Chris’ eyes travel over your table and then jolt, double-taking, and coming back to you.

You turn to face James, cocking your head as you listen to him. Feeling the heat of Chris’ gaze on you like a brand. You turn back towards Chris after a moment that feels like an hour and meet his eyes.

He’s not happy.

The smile is gone from his face from moments before and he’s watching you, jaw set, turning his glass in his hand. You smile sweetly at him, vindication burning in your chest, and turn back to James before he can react further.

Two can play at that game, after all.

Your heart rate kicks up as you look up at James, sipping again from your glass, feeling Chris’ stare from across the room like a hand on the back of your neck.

Sweat breaks out under your arms at a sudden dump of adrenaline, wanting to look back at Chris but not wanting to give him the satisfaction. You try to focus on James, who is still talking about his latest film, but your heart is thundering in your ears. You down the rest of your wine, nerves and anticipation tightening up your gut. Swallowing heavily as you try to keep your eyes steadily on James.

It could be a minute or an hour, you’re not sure, but James trails off next to you, blinking, eyes widening as he looks beyond you.

You feel a touch at your elbow and your gut clenches down. In spite of everything, you sway back into him. Pulled by gravity itself, it seems.

He’s behind you, giving James a tight lipped smile before turning his eyes down at you. They’re electric in the low light, nearly glowing blue. “Time to go, love,” he says.  His voice is polite, measured, but it makes goosebumps break out down your arms. Knowing that tone and what it means. 

You smile sweetly up at him, still turned away from him. “Chris, this is James,” you say, nodding towards James who is staring at Chris like a deer in the headlights. “He’s new in town but it sounds like he’s been keeping busy.”

Chris nods, extending a hand to James that James takes numbly, blinking at Chris, and then down at you.

“It’s nice to meet you, James,” Chris says coolly. Only as polite as he needs to be. “If you’ll excuse us, it's time for me to take my wife home.”

James nearly backs away. “Of course,” he says faintly.

You have a moment to feel bad about putting James in this awkward position before Chris leans into you, mouth brushing hot against your ear. “Time to go, kitten,” he murmurs so only you can hear, stern like he means it, and your knees nearly give.

He steers you with a hand on your elbow, his jacket thrown over his arm, and you go with him dumbly, not even having the sense to give James a proper goodbye as he leads you to the elevator. People call out to Chris as he leaves with you and you think he responds, though you can’t hear what he says over the thundering of your heart against your ribs.

He pulls you into the empty elevator and you nearly trip over your feet, light headed and swaying as the lights go dark and the elevator starts to move down.

In the dark of the elevator, you feel his breathing just over your ear, hot and strained. 

You start to tremble, feeling heat coil low in your gut. Rubbing your palms nervously on your dress as your heart races. 

He’s not touching you, just a rigid, hot presence behind you. Radiating tension and intent. You feel slick start to gather between your shaky thighs and exhale slowly between your parted lips. 

You’ve gotten what you wanted and the prospect has you dizzy and unsteady on your feet. He won’t be ignoring you now.

The lights in the elevator flip on as it makes it to the ground floor and you step outside of it, waiting patiently as Chris approaches the valet, arms curling around yourself. He returns in a minute, hand curling around your elbow again, and leads you to the sliding glass doors that go outside.

The air outside is surprisingly cool for the season and it feels heavenly against your overly hot skin. You step forward at his direction but jerk to a stop at a blinding _flash-pop_ of light near your head, flinching away and into him reflexively, gasping a little.

Photographers don’t usually attend events like this and it takes a moment for your vision to clear, bright spots dancing around your vision as you blink, more surprised than anything else. Before you can recover, more flashes fire off around you, close enough to make you recoil and throw a hand up over your face. People are shouting his name and yours, all together. Messy and loud and chaotic.

He’s there, all of the sudden, crowding up against you and tugging you into his side. Growling lowly, a hard, angry rumble in his chest that only you can hear as he strides forward with you in tow.

You hear more than see the valet pull up with the car, and feel the hard touch of his hands as he opens your door and helps you in. The door slams shut as soon as you’re safely in, cutting off the shouts and shutter clicks and bathing you in the dark, inky, quiet interior of the car. The leather is cool under your skin and you shiver.

A slice of light and sound cuts across your face and then snaps away just as quickly as Chris climbs into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. His jaw is set, eyes quickly checking the rearview mirror before he shifts the car into drive and peels out of the drive, spitting asphalt underneath the tires.

The car purrs beneath you as it pulls out onto the freeway and Chris shifts gears, turning the radio off with a hard tap of his finger on the dash. He focuses on the road, shoulder set hard against the driver’s seat, lower lip pulled between his teeth and chewing.

The sun is just beginning to set and it occurs to you that left the dinner far before it was officially over, as those sorts of events usually run into the early morning hours. The realization settles in your belly like a molten stone. That he couldn’t wait. That he had to take you by the arm and get you out of there. That the eventual disappointed call from his publicist at him leaving early was worth getting you out of there. Getting you alone. 

He exits before you expect and you realize he’s taking a different route home. You swallow heavily, fingers curling around the curve of your knees, and steal a glance at him across the car.

His chest is rising and falling in the low light, jaw tense under the thick scrub of his beard. His fingers are rapping softly against the knob of the gearshift, his eyes firmly on the road as he drives you away from the city. Away from the lights and the traffic and the people.

Your gaze drifts down his form, greedily, because you can. Taking in the strength of his jaw, the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders and arms. The movement of vein and muscle of his forearm as he rhythmically grips the steering wheel. Below, his thighs are spread on the driver’s seat, wide, stretching against the material of his pants around his thighs. 

He’s hard, all tented up in his pants in the low light, and the sight makes a soft moan fall from your lips. 

“Chris,” you whimper, fingers gripping the hem of your dress over your lap. Squeezing your thighs together and feeling yourself leak onto the seat below you.

His eyes slide over to yours, slowly, glowing under the intermittent light of passing street lamps. He shakes his head and turns back to the watch the road. “Kitten,” he rumbles, voice deep and hard in his chest. An admonishment, and the only thing that keeps you from slipping your hand between your thighs.

You whimper in response but fist your hands in your lap, nearly shaking in your seat. Trying so hard to be good.

The city passes by the windows in a dark blur and you’re vaguely aware that he’s taking you home the long way, on a route that’s winding and goes up the mountain on quiet, deserted roads. You turn your wedding ring on your finger, breathing in and out in measured breaths, feeling like you might faint from anticipation if you don’t.

You feel your ears pop as the road winds up the side of the mountain, going way faster than the posted speed limit. It would worry you if Chris wasn’t as commanding behind the wheel but you’ve never felt anything but safe with him. The car hums as it hugs the curves of the road, purring as the sun disappears below the horizon.

You haven’t seen another car in a few minutes when you can’t stop yourself from reaching out and touching him, hand falling to his forearm on the center console, shifting in your seat to face him. You’re not supposed to, you know, but you feel like you’re about to burst out of your own skin.

Your fingers curl around his forearm, the hot skin there, and you whine softly, the sound of his name dying in your throat. Your mouth fills with spit as you eye his cock where it’s still hard in his pants, and you’re nearly panting when you reach for him and whimper, “Please, Chris. Please, let me. Let me taste you.” 

His nostrils flare at your touch, his eyes dropping down to where your hand is curled around his wrist. He blinks and shakes his head, pulling his arm from your grasp. 

A sharp turn on the wheel has you swaying in your seat, nearly knocking your forehead into his shoulder as he pulls over onto the shoulder of the road and shifts the car into park with a lurch. You sit and watch him, breath all caught up on your throat as your heart thunders in your chest.

Dust settles around the car as the engine dies, his fingers twisting the key back in the ignition as the engine quietly putters out.

Chris stares hard out the windshield, jaw ticking, and when you open your mouth to say something, he moves, shoving his door open and growling, “Get out of the car,” as he steps out.

You scramble, head spinning as you find the handle of your door and shove, nearly tripping over yourself as your feet hit the ground outside of the car.

What happens next is a blur. 

He meets you at the back of the car and his hand lands heavily on your waist, spinning you in place and shoving you up against the trunk. Fitting himself in the space behind you, pressed up against your every curve, pinning you to the car with his body. 

You gasp, hands coming up to grip the lip where the rear windshield meets the trunk, and you can’t stop the way you jut your hips into his hands as they rough you up, fisting in your dress and shoving it up over your hips so hard that the fabric burns your skin.

He’s gritting out hot, angry words you can’t decipher just over your ear and one of his hands hands curves tight around the meat of your thigh, squeezing painfully hard, canting your hips back to him as the other works his belt buckle.

You’re panting, nearly in tears, thighs shaking as he shoves your feet apart with an ankle and bares you to the cool night air. You get a warning, the snag of the head of his cock against your sopping entrance that makes you keen, before he fucks into you with a brutal snap of his hips.

He snarls like he’s wounded as he bottoms out in you, the growl of his voice echoing in the space around you, making you clench down around him desperately, whining for him against the cool metal of the car. He’s gasping, out of breath already like he’s run a marathon, and you can feel him shaking behind you as he pins you with his weight. Overcome and overwhelmed with need. Already lost to it. 

The fill of him punches the air from your lungs on a long, desperate whine. Makes your eyes roll back in your head as endorphins dump through your bloodstream. Makes you light headed and delirious at the stretch of him where he’s buried in you.

You’ve never gotten used to it, even after all these years. The first press of his thick cock into you, bullying past the tight, hot squeeze of you, snugging so close and rooting so deeply inside of you, still shorts out the synapses in your brain. Makes your head loll against the trunk of the car like you’ve been drugged, saliva pooling in your mouth.

You hear him curse, a hot, muttered “ _fuck_ ” uttered somewhere over your head. He gets both hands around your hips then, squeezing hard enough to bruise, hard enough to shift the bones under his palms, and a groan rattles in his throat as he starts to fuck you.

He wastes no time, gritting his teeth and yanking your hips back to meet the hard snap of his hips over and over and over again, the fronts of your thighs slapping against the car trunk with every thrust. You’re sloppy already, have been for hours, slick coating the insides of your thighs, dripping down his cock as he roots it deep in you with the force that knocks your breath from your lips with every hard rut.

The last time you’d had him was yesterday, early in the morning. He’d woken you with soft kisses between your legs and had settled in there, eating you out with soft mouth and stroking tongue until you’d lost track of how many times you’d come against his face. Eventually having to beg him to stop, pushing his face away from your sex, reaching desperately for his cock and begging for it. He’d fucked you slow then, holding your jaw in his hand as he rolled his hips into yours, in no hurry at all. Gentle and worshiping you with soft, generous hands.

This is nothing like yesterday. 

He’s speaking nonsense, muttering praise and filth in equal measure as he fucks into you with enough force to make the car rock on it’s wheels. Calling you his good girl, muttering that he’s going to fill you up with his cum, fill you til you’re leaking with it. That you’re his, that you belong to him, that you’re his and his alone. His baby. His kitten.

You can feel him leaking in you, hot precum mixing with your slick. You’re panting, hot little grunts forced out of you every time he finds purchase. The sound of him moving against you is sloppy and lewd, echoing in the summer night air around the buzz of crickets and fireflies. Gravel crunches under his feet as he shifts, pulling one of your thighs out, plunging him deeper still.

The push and drag of his cock inside of you, the hot plunge of him into every inch of your tight, wet heat renders you mute, activating some dark recess in your brain that begs to be used. To be filled. To be fucked. A part of your brain that feels animal and feral, that makes you flex your core around him, desperate for his cum. Trying to milk it out of him. Wanting him to fill you up with it, to breed you deep with his seed until you can’t keep it all inside. Until you reek of him, of his sex, in every inch of you. Until everyone will know that you’re his.

Tears have filled your eyes, overcome with emotion as he claims you as his with rough hands, as he growls that no one else can have you like this. That you’re his. That he’ll kill any man who so much as looks at you. 

His hips stutter, once, then twice, and he’s biting out “fuck, _fuck_ ” as he pins you to the car with one last rut, hard enough to jar you, make your teeth snap together as his dick hardens within you, still, and jerks, spitting hot cum as he pistons his hips against yours. Burying his seed deep, deep inside you with every flex and bunch of his hips.

You pulse around him, squeezing desperately, groaning weakly at the feeling of him spilling in you. Wanting to feel more of him.

He’s panting as his hips stutter out a few last jerks against yours, fingers flexing and then quickly releasing your hips, like he hadn’t realized how hard he’d been gripping you. He stays in you for a moment though, letting you wring the last drops of cum from his spent cock with little rhythmic pulses.

His hand comes down to feel at you, at where you’re still connected. Touching gently at the slick, puffy skin where you’re still gripped around him, making your hips twitch involuntarily against his fingers.

You whimper when he pulls from you, feeling the loss like a heartbreak as he draws back, but he turns you in his hands, sliding his palms under your thighs and sitting you up on the trunk of the car like you weigh nothing at all.

He stares at you, hand coming up to touch at your jaw, thumbing at the tears that have left streaks on your cheeks. He’s breathing hard still, lips parted, sweat shining at his temple, and you almost can’t bear to meet his eyes. This close, they’re electric blue and overflowing with emotion that makes your heart swell in your chest so hard you feel it will burst.

His other hand wraps loosely around your throat, squeezing gently there as he leans in and kisses you. A firm, insistent press of his lips that makes you open to him, parting your lips and opening your thighs so he can come to stand between them.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips as his hand reaches down and his fingers pet through the slick of your folds, dipping two fingers into you as easy as breathing. “I love you so fucking much.” 

You mean to respond but his thumb finds you clit, all swollen and hot, and you whine instead, gripping his shoulders and shoving your face into the crook of his neck. He rubs you there, holding you close as you’re perched on the trunk of the car, fucking his fingers into you with little hard jerks of his wrist, crooking his fingers against you in a way that makes you cry out. Makes your hips bunch desperately against his hand as heat starts to coil up hot and tight in your belly.

The steady pressure of his fingers and his thumb on you is practiced and mastered. A road he’s traversed a million times and knows like the back of his hand. It brings you up to the edge, just like that, spilling new slick all over his palm, and you are panting into the skin of his neck, nodding your head. Begging him in soft little pants of “ _please, please, please_ ” as your hips rock against his hand.

“Come on,” he murmurs into your ear. “Come on. That’s my girl.”

Your voice breaks in your throat as your orgasm crests in you like a wave, making your sex flutter and pulse frantically against his fingers as he rocks them against you. Your face screws up like you’re in pain as you clutch at his shoulders, gasping out nonsense into his neck as your body wracks with pleasure. Pinning your thighs around his hips as he works you through it with softening hands.

He pulls you back from his shoulder before you’re even through it and kisses you again, hand finally stilling against you as the last pulses finally start to die out. You pant against his mouth openly, head spinning as your senses start to come back to you, and groan softly at the gentle touch of his tongue to yours.

You blink your vision back eventually, gaze settling on his face in the dim light. The sun is nearly gone now, darkness enveloping you both like a glove, and you can barely make out the blue of his eyes in the dark. You realize for the first time that anyone could have driven by. Could have seen him splitting you on his cock, right there by the road. The knowledge makes you feel faint.

His kisses your cheeks, where the salty tracks of tears have dried, and the tenderness makes your chest ache. He’s rubbing his nose against your cheeks, scratching his beard against the hot skin there, nearly purring as he does up his pants with steady hands.

He helps you down from the trunk and you land on coltish legs, shaking like a leaf under your own body weight. He supports you with an easy arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple as he leads you around to the passenger door and helps you climb shakily in. 

He shuts the door carefully after you’re settled, and you let your head thump back against the headrest, face turning to watch as he climbs in the driver’s side. A soft smile spreading across your face at the sight of him.

He watches you for a moment, blinking at you in the low light, before he’s leaning across the center console and kissing you again, just a gentle brush of his lips.

He starts the car with an easy turn of the key, engine rumbling to life, and you can’t help your contented sigh as he checks over his shoulder at the road behind you before pulling out onto the road and hitting the gas.

You stay facing him, curled up in your seat as he drives you home. Watching as his face is bathed in the flashes of light from the occasional street lamp, reveling in the indulgent sight of him. Heart beating hard in your chest at the emotion swirling in your gut when his hand comes over to curl warmly around your knee, settling around the curve of your thigh with a soft, possessive squeeze.

He looks over at you once and smiles, just a soft quirk of his lips, before returning his eyes to the road. You let your eyes fall closed, grounded by the warm weight of his hand on your thigh and by your aching love for him. Trusting him to get you home. Trusting him with all that you are.


End file.
